When I was in 6th grade, we had to dissect various formerly living creatures for a science class. This is not what most 6th grade girls consider fun. The teacher said if we were squeamish about touching the dead things, we could wear surgical-type latex gloves, but we had to bring them ourselves. OK, trip to the drug store, then.
I didn't know where they kept the gloves, so instead of wandering the store all night, I had to go ask an employee. I have never been a particularly outgoing person - the running theme of this blog is that I'm super awkward at all times, and it was much worse in the glaring spotlight of prepubescence.
The employee I found was an older lady, probably about my grandparents' age. She seemed benign. I approached cautiously.
Me: Excuse me, where are the rubber gloves?
Her *staring*: You're not going to use them on yourself, are you?
Me *mystified*: ....
Her: *intense stare*
Me *terrified*: ...we're dissecting a worm in class tomorrow and I don't want to touch it...
Her *with obvious relief*: Oh, all right, they're over here.
To this day I have no idea what she thought I was going to do, and honestly, I would rather not know. This is one of those things where I'd rather remain puzzled than know what she actually thought of me.
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